There Is Little Choice In

Beauty Is But A Vain And Doubtful Good; A Shining Gloss That Fadeth Suddenly; A Flower That Dies When It Begins To Bud; A Doubtful Good, A Gloss, A Glass, A Flower, Lost, Faded, Broken, Dead Within An Hour.

I Would With Such Perfection Govern, Sir, T'excel The Golden Age.

And Do So, Love, Yet When They Have Devised What Strainèd Touches Rhetoric Can Lend, Thou, Truly Fair, Wert Truly Sympathized In True Plain Words By Thy True-telling Friend; And Their Gross Painting Might Be Better Used Where Cheeks Need Blood; In Thee It Is Abused.

A Man May See How This World Goes With No Eyes. Look With Thine Ears: See How Yond Justice Rails Upon Yon Simple Thief. Hark, In Thine Ear: Change Places; And, Handy-dandy, Which Is The Justice, Which Is The Thief?

Sick In The World's Regard, Wretched And Low.